


There's a First Time for Everything

by facelessoldwoman



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Patronus, baby sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 11:03:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1980498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/facelessoldwoman/pseuds/facelessoldwoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes excels in every area of magic except for one...</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's a First Time for Everything

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to keep this in my Documents folder but a friend insisted.

This was to be the final year in the impressive magical education of Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft sought complete domination in every subject: his grades were superior, his exam scores were almost beyond belief, and his feats of incantation were legendary within the school. He was infamous in his own ruthless house of Slytherin. His group of friends promised to form the most powerful circle of wizards in Great Britain, and likely the world. He was charming to teachers and loyal to friends but mostly dismissive of anyone else who had the gall to cross his path.

But there was a problem, and it was … embarrassing. In all of his years of study in Defense Against the Dark Arts he had never managed more than a low strength shield patronus. He had spent hours upon hours practicing the spell in hidden corners of the dungeons, trying to rectify his own inadequacy and yet had no progress for his troubles. In the time since his third year he read up on various essays and research on the theory behind how the spell worked, and even asked the string of professors that held that post over the years how to perform the spell correctly- but none of these supposedly learned witches and wizards had any concrete help for him. They all repeated the same wisdom of focusing on a “strong” happy memory, which did not impress the practical and calculating prodigy at all: he had never seen a reason to value sentiment before, why start now?

And so he toiled on, convinced that until he managed to overcome this obstacle he would leave Hogwarts a failure.

And then the most peculiar thing happened. On the day of the practical examination for Defense Against the Dark Arts Mycroft stayed behind after he completed his tasks to watch the performance of his peers. Most of them were simply dreadful, Mycroft felt embarrassed to be in the same class as them. Others were adequate, but uninspired. A select few students even performed admirably, though these were very few, and none of them were as good as Mycroft.

When the last student arose for their exam Mycroft was growing bored and was considering leaving after all. It was only Lestrade, best known as the Gryfinndor quidditch team captain. All that Mycroft cared about was that he was an unremarkable student who would likely use his enthusiasm for Defense Against the Dark Arts to enter magical law enforcement. Mycroft was never very impressed with law enforcement, it was a field far below Mycroft’s sensibilities and in his mind it lacked all imagination.

There he was, with his chestnut hair as tussled as the white button up shirt, smiling as he rolled up his sleeves. The smile, a familiar feature on Lestrade’s sun kissed face, held no mirth, condescension, or ulterior motives whatsoever. It irked Mycroft terribly. Mycroft was prepared to leave when the instructors pulled away the obstacle course used on other students and instead pulled out a wardrobe in the open space for Lestrade to face. Lestrade stood with his wand at the ready and the instructor opened the door.

It was a dementor, or likely a shapeshifter posing as a dementor, likely a boggart or some other such creature. The hooded figure loomed and exuded raw overwhelming dread. Even as far back as Mycroft had chosen to sit he was still affected. But Lestrade never wavered. He stood tall, and called out in a clear booming voice, ‘ _Expecto Patronum_!’

A luminous silver fox was projected from Lestrade’s wand, the most spectacular and alluring feat of magic that Mycroft had ever seen from another student. It was perfect. The fox bounded out of Lestrade’s wand and attacked the dementor, which recoiled as though burned, quickly retreating, screeching all the while. The fox returned to Lestrade, who greeted the airy creature with a short pat on the head before it dissipated.

The instructors were clapping. How unseemly.

*             *             *             *             *

“How did you do it?” Mycroft asked, cornering Lestrade as soon as he left the classroom.

“Do what?” Lestrade asked, his near permanent smile fading from his face.

“Don’t play coy with me, Lestrade, how did you conjure that Patronus,” Mycroft asked.

“We were taught that spell earlier in the term, **_Holmes_** ,” Lestrade said, “I think someone as bright as you might have remembered.” 

“We were taught _about_ that spell earlier in the term, no teacher in their right mind would expect a room full of teenagers to be able to master such a complicated spell which is why the standard curriculum focuses on theory and hardly broaches the practical application. So who taught you?” Mycroft asked.

“Look, the place where I grew up has had trouble with dementors for years,” Lestrade said, “My mum taught me that spell as soon as I was legally able to own a wand. It was the only way you could survive.”

Mycroft was wary, even suspicious, but at last he said, “Teach me.”

“What?” Lestrade asked.

“You heard me,” Mycroft asked. He paused before adding, “Please.”

“You mean you don’t know how? There is something in the wide world of magic that the legendary Mycroft Holmes doesn’t find laughably effortless?” Lestrade taunted.

“Effortless?” Mycroft gasped, “You think I got where I am without effort?!”

“Or so you would have everyone believe,” Lestrade said, “You strut around the castle like you own the place, don’t deny it.”

“I do **_not_** strut,” Mycroft huffed, crossing his arms even as his cheeks burned bright pink.

“What’ll you give me?” Lestrade said.

“Excuse me?” Mycroft asked.

“If I teach you to do a patronus, what do I get in return?” Lestrade asked.

“I am sure we could negotiate a sum to your liking,” Mycroft rolled his eyes, internally counting how much money he had or could borrow on short notice.

“Woah, hold your broomsticks,” Lestrade said, “Who said anything about money?”

“What else do you have in mind?” Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

“A spell for a spell,” Lestrade said, “I teach you how to conjure a first class Patronus I want to cast a spell without using words.”

“Ambitious,” Mycroft tutted.

“Maybe it’s catching,” Lestrade said.

The boys shook hands and agreed to meet on the edge of the Forbidden Forrest early Saturday morning.

*             *             *             *             *

“Let’s take a break, we’ve been at it all morning,” Lestrade huffed, his brow sweaty with the heat of the rising May sun.

“I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong,” Mycroft said, his voice hoarse from so many desperate repetitions of the spell. His hair was drenched with sweat; his wand shook between his fingers; his brow was pinched with frustration. After all this time, his last illogical hope to master this elusive magic was slipping through his fingers.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Lestrade asked, “What memory are you using?”

“The same memory I’ve always used,” Mycroft said.

“Which is?” Lestrade asked.

“My first night at Hogwarts,” Mycroft said, “It was the first time I was away from home and it was the happiest I’ve ever felt.”

“That’s it?” Lestrade asked.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mycroft asked.

“No first time snogs or epic birthday parties?” Lestrade asked, “Don’t you have anything a little more exciting?”

“Some people enjoy action, others enjoy planning,” Mycroft said, “I was never one for adventures, too much legwork.”

Lestrade sat down on the grass and Mycroft joined him.

“I cried my first night away from home,” Lestrade said, “How is it that that’s your favorite memory?”

“I was,” Mycroft said, “I was going mad at home. Mummy was always fussing after us and father was more or less clueless. You couldn’t find a more ordinary man if you tried, if I live to be one hundred I’ll never understand him. Primary school with muggle children was akin to torture, they were all so dull. I don’t know why they even bothered making us go.”

“Perhaps to make friends?”  Lestrade said. He was smiling. Again. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“I just remember finally getting to leave, riding that train to my real home,” Mycroft said, “It was like destiny. I was finally free to be myself.”

“Tell me about Sherlock,” Lestrade said.

“What about him,” Mycroft said, his words clipped and laced with venom.

“He’s so much younger than you,” Lestrade said, “He’s only a first year.”

“So?” Mycroft said.

“What was it like growing up with such a younger brother?” Lestrade asked.

“Nightmare,” Mycroft sighed.

“That’s charitable,” Lestrade smirked.

“You don’t understand, Sherlock is,” Mycroft said, reaching for words that could possibly describe it, “Sherlock is impossible. He’s fussy, stubborn, immature, aggressive, antisocial, rebellious…”

“You’re exaggerating, all little brothers are” Lestrade started to say, but Mycroft interrupted.

“No! I’m downplaying! That’s the worst part!” Mycroft cried out, “Since the moment they brought him home he has been nothing but trouble. He caught his crib on fire before he was out of diapers! He drove away every child in his nursery school and frightened their mothers! He was always in fights, always driving someone up the wall, always getting into trouble.”

“You worry about him,” Lestrade said.

“Constantly,” Mycroft said, his head in his hands.

“ _Think about the day he got his Hogwarts letter_ ,” Lestrade whispered into his ear.

“What?” Mycroft said, lifting his hear up.

“Just… _try_ it,” Lestrade said.

“If you insist,” Mycroft said, standing wearily and aligning his body into a proper stance. He looked into the darkness of the forest and thought back to a different time.

_Sherlock was nursing a blackeye with a bag of peas, their mother refusing to heal it until Sherlock explained himself. In response Sherlock shut down even more, pouting out his lower lip and pressing the bag even tighter._

_“Pride gets you nowhere, Sherlock,” his mother said, fussing about the kitchen looking for some kind of seasoning._

_Mycroft was sitting by the window trying to enjoy his tea in peace but was interrupted by the arrival of a pair of barn owls in the garden._

_“Oh, Mycroft, this must be your school letter. Do bring it in, we’ll need to make our shopping list before we go into town,” their mother said brightly, “Sherlock stop pouting, sweetheart, won’t you?”_

_Mycroft went into the garden and the owls dutifully stretched out their legs. He was surprised that both owls carried letters from Hogwarts. And one of the letters wasn’t addressed to him._

_“Oh Sherlock,” Mycroft cooed, “I do hope you unstick your tongue soon, they don’t accept mutes into Hogwarts.”_

_“What?” Sherlock asked, the first word he had spoken all afternoon._

_Their mother dropped her mug on the floor where it shattered completely unnoticed. She had picked up Sherlock and was hugging him as tightly to her as she could (which wasn’t very tight, because of how much Sherlock was squirming)._

_“Oh Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock!” their mother laughed, “I am so proud of you!”_

_Mycroft stood in the doorway, all but forgotten, but smiling one of the few unguarded smiles of his life._

 *         *         *         *         *

“Expecto- PATRONUM!” Mycroft yelled, his wand quavering even as it erupted with light such as no other attempt had manifested. But this was no shield, this was separate and alive. This was a fully formed animal spirit guardian. This was high magic that few wizards ever achieved.

This was…

“A goldfish?” Lestrade laughed, “Seriously?”


End file.
